I jumped as amusement from a third party intruded my open senses.
Jim patted me on the shoulder. “Your Uber is here.”
My trusty bartender thought I was funny. Who needed an Alfred when I had a Jim? “Thanks!”
Tucker pushed back from the bar and helped me off the stool. “When did you order an Uber?”
“Magic. Now what’s your address? It’s time to scale this party down to naked.” My cheeks flushed at my idiocy. I had no idea what I was saying. I wanted to get back to lust and away from conversation.
I strutted toward the door with as much grace as my drunk ass could handle. Looking over my shoulder, I cocked my head at Tucker. He practically sprinted to my side. Maybe I would give him my number.
Chapter Seventeen
Tucker proved to be everything I had imagined. Even his gentle snoring in his bed—that we thoroughly destroyed—was appealing. My curse was numb with the overuse as a few other body parts throbbed with the memory. I considered waking him and having one more go before I left.
I stopped myself though, because that would be breaking my cardinal rule: no relationships, just hook ups. My finger traced his back muscles to his thick shoulder blade. What the heck. I wasn’t Catholic. Screw the cardinal rule.
Oh boy, these conversations I had with myself cracked me up. I couldn’t even get along with my own thoughts. How the hell was I going to make a relationship work? Plus, I came here fair and square with no expectations.
The streetlight from outside highlighted the clean condo with fresh-pressed scrubs hanging in the closet. At least, Tucker wasn’t a slob. I’d been to some awful places to feed my appetite, but this one was pretty nice. My aching muscles encouraged me to snuggle closer and fall asleep. A groan escaped my lips as reason attempted to win over the alcohol haze. I’d never stayed until morning. I wouldn’t even know how to handle myself in the daylight.
Sober.
After rolling out of bed as quietly as I could manage, I played my favorite post-sex game: Where were my clothes? My shirt was easy. It was always easy because it was always right by the door. Every time. As I scoured his apartment to reassemble my outfit, I felt amazing, except for the lost-in-the-desert-sized thirst. I opened his fridge but didn’t see any water. A beer would have to do. I twisted the top off and downed it.
By the time I squeezed back into my impossible leather skirt, it was just past 1 a.m.
Having no idea where I was, I took another beer from the fridge and snuck out the door. By the time I hit the street, the second beer was almost gone. I remembered getting there, but most of the time, my face was stuck in Tucker’s and I didn’t actually pay attention to the streets or the area of town I ended up in. I squinted at the CVS across the street and then saw my favorite Mexican restaurant.
Midtown. Oh, good. I knew exactly where I was.
As I fumbled for my phone to summon a ride, realization of what else I was next to hit me.
My mood dropped, as did the bottle I’d been holding.
“Shit!” I yelled as the dregs in the bottle splashed on my legs and glass sprinkled the sidewalk where normal, not-drunk-on-a-weekday people would walk tomorrow.
I tried to restore my mood and block the bloody scene from Sunday, the event that changed my life. Maybe I should have stayed in bed with that scrumptious Tucker. I yanked my fingers through my hair, like the strands were in my face blurring my vision, not the copious amounts of alcohol I’d consumed. The blue building a couple blocks down, however, was in perfect focus.
The alcohol probably didn’t help, but I swung from shock to pure anger. How dare he do this to me! How dare he ruin what little peace I had! My life might have been lonely before, but it was quiet and safe. And now I didn’t know what the hell was going on.
How many cursed were there? Why couldn’t Albert Johnson, the artist, the Collector, just post a video on YouTube or go on a morning talk show or put an ad on Craigslist? Why did he have to assault me emotionally with that damn statue out of nowhere? How did he put this desperate need into me to find out the truth?
Well, you know what? Fuck him.
I stomped down the road to the building. The door that had been unlocked before through the garden was still unlocked. This was a terribly unsafe building. They needed to get that fixed. The whole way up the elevator, I adjusted my tiny purse strap over my shoulder. Its attempts at escape made me second guess my breaking into his apartment. Plus, what were the odds that the red door would be unlocked this time? As the elevator doors closed behind me, I remembered the smell.
The body was hauled out by the police. Surely, it wouldn’t smell anymore, right? A glance down the hallway showed my vomit had been cleaned up. Maybe his condo wouldn’t be so bad.
Dammit. Why was this so hard? I needed answers, and they were in the apartment. If this psycho was targeting people like me, I could be next.
Son of a bitch. Maybe I drank too much. Who would know about my curse anyway? Which begged the question, how did the killer know about anyone’s?
The door didn’t budge. That would have been too easy. I leaned against the wood and felt the top of the door jamb. That was where all the keys were in the movies. My fingers brushed a sticky substance of unknown origin that I tried not to think about, but no cold metal key. I slid down the door and dropped my head into my hands.
This was dumb anyway. I pulled out my phone to call an Uber like I should have as soon as I hit the street. My fingers had trouble following the directions of my alcohol-addled mind. The fluorescent hallway lights didn’t help. There was something intolerable about being drunk when it was bright. Fumbling with my phone, I accidentally hit the YouTube app popping up the DIY eyeliner video I watched while getting ready for this evening.
A new idea popped into my head. I rolled onto my knees and scrutinized the lock. It looked like a simple bolt with the name etched into the top. I typed in “how to pick a deadbolt” and the specific brand. Bam! What did we ever do without the internet? With a couple hairpins retrieved from my perfectly coifed hair—well, it was before Tucker anyway—I got to work.
By the time, I finally got the lock to click open, my forehead was slick with sweat and my fingers ached from constantly twisting and poking with the bent hairpins. That damn tutorial made it look a lot easier than it was. I pushed the red door open and fell flat on my face. My legs had gone completely numb.
Still on the floor, I took a whiff of the air before I went any further. I could still smell the sour sweet decomposition, but it floated underneath the surface instead of slamming me in the face. While I wondered how they were ever going to rent out this condo again, I managed to find my feet.
The impressions on the large shelf at the entrance vibrated, but not insistently like the first time. I wasn’t going to run away this time. I was going to use them for answers. Now where to start? Albert chose to call himself the Collector, right? There had to be some sort of pattern to the disparate items. Why did he choose these? My hand hovered over a huge silver belt buckle. My stomach lurched.
Before I searched for clues, I needed another drink. My brain still swam in alcohol, but concentrating on the lock had forced a bit of sobriety to the forefront. I wasn’t ready to think straight. I might decide to do the right thing and go home and sleep it off when I really needed answers.
Reluctant to go into the kitchen, I concentrated on his desk. There had to be liquor here somewhere. A large black and white office calendar sat on the desk, a big “X” marked in the corner of each Friday night along with notes on upcoming shows. The middle drawer had nothing but a stapler and some pencils.
“Those marks better not be AA meetings.” The top side drawer had miscellaneous office supplies and a few napkins with sketches on them. “No clubs on the napkins? Come on, Albert. I can’t imagine you had to live with everyone else’s feelings and didn’t drink.”
Out of desperation, I went into the kitchen. The blood had been cleaned up, but stains still marred the flo
or. I walked around the spot where I found him. The flashback already rolled across my mind. I didn’t need the added assault of the actual remnant.
The fridge contained an old carton of milk and some moldy vegetables. “Seriously, Albert? No beer. Were you some sort of health nut?”
A quick check in the cabinet over the stove produced nothing. Under the sink was only cleaning supplies. “You really do go to AA meetings every Friday, don’t you?”
I leaned on the sink. Before I realized what I’d touched, someone else’s memory of pure joy rushed through my limbs. With my senses numbed, I easily separated my own experience, but it didn’t make it any less disturbing. He was happy. He’d found it. After all this time, he knew.
Chapter Eighteen
I tore my hands away. My lungs heaved as adrenaline incited every nerve.
That was Albert’s killer. Unless I was totally off my mark, George Martinez’s too.
How could the sadistic bastard be so ecstatically happy after brutally murdering another human being? It was exactly what he felt—and made George reflect—at the psychic’s house. What was going on here? I swallowed my anger and used it to fuel my determination. My artificially sobered brain watched the emotional vibrations disturb the air from the collection of impressions near the door.
It was time to get down to business.
Before the cluttered shelves, I pressed my hands to my hips and cracked my neck. It was the best tough bitch pose I could manage. The answers had to be on these damn impressions, and I was going to find it. But first, I had to center myself. I’d never searched for an object on purpose before the hotel this afternoon with Flores. If I was going to survive this attempt, if I was going to use this curse to help find a killer, I had to learn to reliably separate myself from the experiences of the people who left the remnants.
Studying the myriad pieces, I wasn’t sure where to start. Trophies sat next to rusty tools on the same shelf with toys and gaudy jewelry. Some of the items had tags with numbers, while others had no discernible markings. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the mess.
Enough procrastinating. I needed to choose an impression and touch it.
My hands curled into fists as I reached toward a teddy bear. My mom’s favorite hymn floated in the background as I held the object just below its arms. Inside the memory, I squeezed the bear to my nightgown, like a protective barrier.
No, I had to stop thinking like that. I was not wearing a nightgown. This memory was not mine. Breathe.
The girl—I was sure it was a girl—shook, as her nervousness shot adrenaline through her muscles. She shifted on her bed under the covers, like she couldn’t get comfortable. The foot of the mattress compressed and she looked up at a white man in his mid-thirties in a T-shirt and sports shorts.
“I won’t hurt you, sweetheart,” he said, as he tossed the cap from his head onto the side table. He pulled his bangs up from their flattened position with his right hand.
I dropped the teddy bear. Why would Albert keep that? It should be burned. Kicking the horrible remnant aside, I forcibly cleared my mind of the disgust I felt. I had to try the next one. I avoided a child-sized skate. A fountain pen fit nicely in my palm.
Fear flowed from this one. My—his—hand holding the expensive pen had almost opaque skin folded among deep purple veins. He knew he was dying, and his helplessness overshadowed a bitter sadness. He tried to resist, but her hand over his was too strong.
A middle-aged white woman held the clipboard with his written will. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll make sure your legacy continues without the influence of those illegitimate nightmares. I am your true daughter and always will be.”
His throat contracted around something lodged within that prevented him from speaking. Based on the wheezing sounds in the background, he was probably intubated. Though his muscles no longer obeyed, his mind was sharp and full of betrayal.
I pushed the pen aside letting the remnant fade. I wondered if the fake will held up in court.
The next item was a funny looking totem pole. It reminded me of that horrible episode of the Brady Bunch when they went on vacation in Hawaii. Well, let’s see what curse this one held.
Its carved surface bit into the palm of the impression-leaver. Boys piled on top of him in some field in the middle of the night. His chest ached as he tried to pull in air. He couldn’t pull in enough to yell at them to get off as he sunk into the mud.
The guys crushing him chanted Greek letters. The bitter smell of hops floated in the air like a brewery had exploded. The man under all the testosterone feebly smacked the nearest cheek with the totem.
Their eyes met and the one above freaked out. “Get off! Quick! There’s something wrong.” Though right next to the totem holder’s head, the voice sounded like it came from far away.
As sweet, fresh air rushed into his lungs, a tight pain gripped his chest. As someone flipped him over, the totem holder scratched at his chest, unable to breathe even after the pile-on dissipated.
I pushed the totem aside and rested my forehead on the bookshelf, my hand massaging the pain in my own chest. What kind of sick collection was this? What kind of man was Albert Johnson that he chose to surround himself with so many visceral memories of horrible things happening to real people? If I was going to collect emotional remnants, I’d want ones like that charm where the girl was so much in love. Those are the things we need to hold on to, not the treacherous things we do to each other.
A bowling trophy stood tall by my hand. This one had to be a happy memory. Every aspect of life was not misery. Pretending to have more hope than I felt, I wrapped my hand around the trophy’s bright green column. Fury added force to every blow as the man bludgeoned another with the base of the trophy.
“Enough!” I yelled, and threw the trophy across the living room. It smashed into the wall with a satisfying crunch. Pieces scattered across the floor. “You too.” I accused the fountain pen and threw it across the room.
I’d had it. I wasn’t learning anything, just torturing myself. I picked up one piece after another and flung it across the room. The beginning of an emotion would hit—every time an unpleasant one—then I’d add it to the flying debris. I don’t know what I thought I’d find, but I was stupidly naive for thinking I could solve such a mystery.
A hammer swung through the air and went right through the wall, ripping a huge swath of wallpaper. Oh shit, I’d done it now.
With my hands on my knees to catch my breath from the all-out temper tantrum, I noticed that the hammer flew through the wall, but I didn’t remember hearing it break anything. After scooting around the litter on the floor, I knelt on the couch to inspect the damage. There was nothing solid behind the peeling patch of wallpaper, just a rough rectangle sawed into the drywall. Inside, the light from my phone highlighted a brown leather ledger, like the one I used to keep the books at work. With my hand shaking, too exhausted to fight anymore impressions, I reached in and touched the cover.
Relief relaxed my tension. I felt nothing. It was clean.
I dropped onto a cushion, cross-legged, and opened the book. Columns and columns of numbers filled page after page. More mysteries on top of more mysteries. Where were the answers? What could all of these numbers mean? There must be a guide somewhere. I scoured the hole in the wall. There wasn’t anything else in there.
“Ms. Young?”
I fell right off the couch and face planted. I rolled over, and stared up at a uniformed policeman, the same one who found me Sunday night in much the same compromising position.
“Officer Pradock, I need to talk to Detective Flores, right away.” I pointed at the ledger, then the torn wallpaper. “I found this in there. It has to be a clue.”
He reported to his radio that he was arresting an intruder and the address. As he helped me to my feet, I really wished I had my gloves and maybe a bit more skin covered. His emotional state reflected concern and annoyance in equal parts. And though minor on the scale of emotional re
actions, after the night I’d had, it was too much for me to handle. The onslaught of mental images and experiences and the excessive drinking without water hit me with a swirl of nausea, and I blacked out.
Chapter Nineteen
My body shivered with cold as I rolled awake. Where was all the light coming from? My room was never this bright. With rapid blinking to mitigate the painful glow, I managed to pry one eye open, only to have a stabbing pain in my brain make me close it again. Usually a slight headache, easily dealt with by a couple ibuprofen, was the only sign of excessive alcohol use. This was the worst hangover I’d ever had.
What did I do last night? Warmth traveled down my spine at the memory of Tucker. Then the afterward came back in a sweep of anger and tormented memories. My wrist ached from throwing those remnants during my temper tantrum at Albert’s condo. It was probably a good thing that Officer Pradock—Oh shit.
I sat up in one motion. My hands gripped the base of the cot to keep me upright as the room continued to spin. Instead of my dark, cozy bedroom, bars surrounded me in a sparse room with only the thin, elevated mattress I sat on and a dingy toilet.
Jail. How the heck did I end up in jail? My memory was so foggy I didn’t remember leaving Albert’s.
On either side of me were two more empty cells. I rubbed the chill from my arms. The skin-to-skin contact threw me for a loop. Where were my gloves? I was in a police station with heaven knows what kind of riff raff and emotional baggage, and I had no protection. My short leather skirt and skimpy top did little to protect the rest of my body. When my elbow had slightly brushed that journal, I was inundated with unwanted images and emotions. A place like this might have all kinds of remnants. I didn’t think my brain could take much more torment.
I had to get out of here. “Hey! Who’s watching this place? No one read me my rights. You can’t hold me.”
Now I understood how the big cats at the zoo felt as I mirrored their pacing. I wasn’t going to rub on the bars though. No obvious impressions vibrated on the metal, but that didn’t mean one wouldn’t pop up as soon as I touched it.
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